


dance patrol

by benito



Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Passive Aggressive Gay Chicken, Sad Ending, Slow Dancing, i guess? it's kinda bittersweet, i like melancholy endings, sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benito/pseuds/benito
Summary: The melody swells as he passes Jane’s room, then the Chief’s, then his own, all the while increasing in volume, accompanied by a gentle echo as it bounces off the walls of the mansion. It’s quiet enough to be discrete; had it not been for the fact that everyone else had already retired for the evening, Cliff himself likely wouldn’t have heard it. It was nothing more than a gentle hum, barely registering to the robot’s sensitive, artificial ears as he inches closer to the end of the hall. Cliff, too, is quiet—quieter than he normally is, trying not to wake anyone, but still bending to his own curiosity.





	dance patrol

**Author's Note:**

> i'm welcoming myself to this ship with some bittersweet gay shit. don't know when the fuck this takes place so imagine it in some weird pocket dimension after 1x01.
> 
> thank you to eli and @raisehades on twitter for proofreading for me!

Cliff is quiet, for once, listening only to the sound of his heavy footsteps against the tile beneath him as he steps through the halls of the mansion. Moonlight floods through each window, casting the shadow of his monstrous form in front of him, leaving him with the unfortunate task of following the figure back to his bedroom. A breathless sigh escapes him, watching his legs move, step after step, a sensation he now only knows through memory. Fears creep at the base of his head; the fear of forgetting. Forgetting what it feels like to walk, to feel—to be human. This train of thought continues, for just a moment, before Cliff suddenly hears the soft sound of a worn record began to echo through the halls.

 _Moon river, wider than a mile,_  
_I’m crossing you in style, someday…_

He pauses, head tilting, like that of a dog trying to hear better. Instinct and experience point him to Rita’s room at first; an old movie, maybe, perhaps a record to help her sleep. As he presses his head against her door, the volume of the music does not shift, flowing further down the hall as he listens quietly.

The melody swells as he passes Jane’s room, then the Chief’s, then his own, all the while increasing in volume, accompanied by a gentle echo as it bounces off the walls of the mansion. It’s quiet enough to be discrete; had it not been for the fact that everyone else had already retired for the evening, Cliff himself likely wouldn’t have heard it. It was nothing more than a gentle hum, barely registering to the robot’s sensitive, artificial ears as he inches closer to the end of the hall. Cliff, too, is quiet—quieter than he normally is, trying not to wake anyone, but still bending to his own curiosity.

 _Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker,_  
_Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…_

“Larry…?” Cliff whispers, mostly to himself, as he approaches the door, listening quietly to the music just on the other side.

Footsteps. No, not footsteps—just…  tapping? Rhythmic. Calculated. Following the beat of the music. Cliff thinks he hears someone—Larry, of course—mumbling, incoherent words, quietly trying to keep himself from being discovered in the dead of night. The music continues, the taps struggling to keep up with the beat. Cliff tilts his head in question, and, without thinking, opens the door for answers.

Larry tenses immediately, suddenly dropping something to the floor—an old mop, Cliff thinks at first, maybe a gardening tool he had lying around. Cliff freezes, the two staring at each other in silence, waiting for the other to break.

 _Two drifters, off to see the world,_  
_There’s such a lot of world to see…_

Cliff chuckles nervously, attempting to break the tension. “Were you dancing?”

“Get out.” Larry responds curtly, balling his fists.

“Dude, it’s cool, I don’t—”

“Get the fuck out, Cliff.” Larry sounds a bit angrier this time, now moving to push Cliff out the door.

“Hey, man—” Cliff begins to fire back, a feeble attempt at deescalating the situation. “I was just—”

 _“GET OUT!”_ He yells, this time, shoving him hard through the door, almost enough to knock him over, slamming the door in his face as he crosses the threshold. Both sounds echo through the halls.

“Larry, please—”

_We’re after the same rainbo—_

The record scratches to a stop.

Cliff’s shoulders slump, and he begins the slow trek back to his room, silently glad his shadow trails behind him.

The next morning, Cliff is up early, going over the previous night in his head, over and over again, slightly angry that even the sensation of guilt pooling in his stomach is only from memory. He gives Larry space the following day—something he’s found is usually the best course of action when he pisses someone in the manor off, save for Rita. He spends much of the next few days watching old movies with her, sometimes outside watching Jane paint. He spends a lot of time in his room, as well, trying to figure out how Larry trimmed the artificial trees. Most of them end up with uneven, patchy leaves, before Rita finds him and does her best to fix them.

It’s a week and a half of Larry not speaking to him, acknowledging him, not even so much as looking at him before Cliff decides to say something. What, exactly, he’s not sure—he’s never really pissed off Larry before. Jane usually needed space when she was mad. Rita liked grand displays and heartfelt apologies. Larry… Larry was reserved. He was quiet. The few details he knew about him came from the first few weeks Cliff had been at the manor. Larry talked more then. Out of pity, maybe; maybe he hoped if he offered something Cliff would give something back. Which worked, usually, in his defense. Larry had probably heard his entire life story at this point.

He skips going to Jane for advice, though he does briefly get her up to speed one day while she paints. Her advice essentially boils down to telling him to stop being a pussy.

One evening, he goes to Rita. She seems reluctant to help, though it seems to be more of a reluctance to share personal information about Larry than anything.

“He’s a quiet man, Clifford. Just give him time.” She says simply, eyes fixed on her hands as she knits.

“Well I’ve gotta do _something_! I’m not going to just sit around and play chicken with him for two more weeks.”

“Then _apologize_.”

“I _tried._ Every time I go to his room the fucking… ghost is hanging out.” He says, rigid movements of his arms to emphasize his words.

“So?”

“It scares me!”

Rita rolls her eyes. “Look. If you really want to show Larry that you’re sorry—go with orchids. Ever since Jane… ‘repossessed’ his garden, he’s been trying to… build it back up. It'll show him you're well intentioned, and that you actually had to _think_ about what you were going to say.”

Cliff thinks for a second, eyes lowering as he slumps.

“Where the fuck am I gonna get orchids?”

A few phone calls, favors, and some _very_ careful maneuvering later, he finds himself carefully making his way back to Larry’s door.

He knocks gently on Larry’s door—as gently as he can with his elbow—his voice a bit meeker than it would be in other situations. Robotic fingers curl nervously around ceramic as he waits for any indication that he was, at the very least, conscious.

“Larry?”

He waits a moment.

“Larry, you in there?”

Nothing.

“Larry, I’m, uh… sorry for busting in the other day.”

Cliff looks down at the potted plant in his hands.

“I, uh… talked to Rita, and she said you liked orchids, so I—”

The door opens abruptly, and Cliff finds himself staring at a silent, surprisingly imposing Larry. He pushes the orchids towards him, gently.

“I got you some orchids for your—”

“Go away, Cliff.” He speaks flatly, like he usually does, and Cliff feels his shoulders slump.

“Larry, I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’m not in the mood.” Larry says, beginning to retreat into his room. Cliff puts one hand on the door to hold it open, carefully holding the orchids in the palm of the other.

“Just let me talk—”

“Cliff, stop it—” Larry begins pushing against him, trying to force the door closed.

“I’m just _trying_ to—”

“Cliff, I don't have time for this—”

“If you’d stop being such a dick and let me _talk—_ ”

“I don’t care what you have to _say_ —”

“Stop pushing me—”

“Get your freakish arm off my door!” Larry snaps, shoving Cliff harder than intended; he staggers back, just enough to let the pot slip from Cliff’s grip, shattering in a pile of broken ceramic and soil on the floor. They both fall silent, staring at the mess for a moment, before Cliff lets out a grunt of anger.

“You know what? Fuck you, Larry.” Cliff’s voice raises in volume now, anger boiling behind his words.

“Cliff, I—”

“No! Fuck you. You sit around all day, ignoring me, walking by like I’m nothing more than some fucking ghost, and why? Because I fucking walked in on you dancing? Big fucking deal! I’m a fucking robot, jackass! You think I care that you’re dancing with a rake handle?”

“Buddy—”

“Don't _'buddy'_ me! I spent two weeks trying to figure out what the fuck it would take for you to, I don’t know, _look_ at me again? And every fucking time you’re just in here taking a fucking nap, letting your ghost tell me to fuck off!”

Larry falls silent.

“And now, after all that, I walk over here, after spending two fucking hours trying to pot this stupid plant—I don’t even fucking like gardening! And now I’m a _freak?_ ”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You think I don’t know that, Larry? Fuck you!” Cliff’s voice threatens to rise again, picking up in volume as he continues on his rant.

“Cliff, calm down—”

 _“You think I_ asked _to be saved?”_

Another silence falls between them. Cliff stares at Larry, stunned at his own words, before Larry steps forward, reaching out towards the robot.

“Cliff...”

“Fuck you.” Cliff whispers, turning and quickly disappearing down the hall.

Larry watches him go, looking down as his chest surges with a warm blue color, a familiar sensation that elicits a sigh.

“Yeah, I know buddy. I know.” He says softly, kneeling down and quietly cupping the soil back together between his palms.

Another week passes. Cliff seldom leaves his room, and when he does, he only walks outside, making quiet conversation as Jane paints—or letting Hammerhead berate him for being too quiet. On Monday, he and Hammerhead get into a fight over something—Larry doesn’t hear the specifics, but, while gardening, he does manage to catch her throwing Cliff’s things out the second story window, cursing him out all the while.

On Tuesday it rains, heavier than it has been the past few months, and Larry spots him standing in front of the house, picking up broken cars and unevenly cut trees. Guilt swells in his gut, and he almost breaks, about to go help when he spots Rita walk outside with an umbrella. She spots him, out of the corner of her eye, and Larry quickly retreats back into his room.

Vic comes back on Friday, calling another team meeting and trying to figure out what their next move is. They don’t have much to go on right now, so they’ve mostly found themselves resigned to playing the waiting game, much to Victor’s chagrin. Larry and Cliff don’t look at each other the entire meeting. On the way out, he hears Jane asking to help him rebuild the track.

It’s Sunday evening, the sun has just set, when Larry finds himself in his room, pacing back and forth, driven crazy trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do now. Being in this house every fucking day—it’s driving him mad, even the smallest feuds turn into month long battles, petty squabbles turn into full on war. No one in the house knew anything about dealing with their _own_ problems, much less their issues with each other. It was a breeding ground for bottled emotions and passive aggression.

Larry sighs, sitting at the edge of his bed, pulling his coat off when his chest starts to hum with energy. He rolls his eyes, head lulling from side to side in annoyance.

“What?”

There’s no answer. There’s never one.

“What do you want? What could you possibly have to tell me that could help me out in this situation? What could you _possibly_ do—”

And then everything goes black.

Down the hall, Cliff is making a poor attempt at saving a car that had been tossed out the window during his fight with Hammerhead. He grunts, trying to get his fingers to secure around the small tires long enough to snap it back into place, when he hears the familiar buzz of electricity as Larry’s ghost floats into his room.

The ghost says nothing, as usual. Cliff just stares at it for a few moments.

“Are you here to kill me?”

It hovers closer, staring at Cliff wordlessly. He shuffles backwards in a panic, cornering himself in his own room. But the ghost doesn’t approach further; it only hovers in the center of his room, then, after a beat, beckons him to follow.

“Me?” Cliff asks, pointing to himself. The ghost says nothing, only quietly slinking out the door. He considers letting it go, for a moment; just letting it leave and hoping it doesn’t come back. But the same curious part of him that beckoned him to open the door to Larry’s room acts up again, and he curses under his breath before stomping after the ghost out into the hall.

When Larry wakes up, he’s his old self again. His hands instinctively raise up to his face, running over smooth skin before taking stock of his surroundings. There’s nothing familiar around him, this time—and most notably—John isn’t here. He’s wearing his typical clothes; suspenders holding up neatly creased pants, his green turtleneck, freshly ironed. His coat is missing, however, and the floor beneath him is that of the floor of his room in the manor. It resembles some sort of purgatory, he thinks, open space and dead air, left alone with his own thoughts. The hum of energy still lingers in the air.

“What is this?”

Music suddenly picks up, echoing through the vast plane around him.

_Moon river, wider than a mile…_

Larry tenses, a heavy weight in his chest suddenly pressing against him, and he looks around in a panic, searching for the source of the music.

_I’m crossing you in style, someday…_

“This isn’t funny.” Larry states, staring into the open air, doing his best not to let on his distress.

_Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker,_

_“Stop it.”_

_Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…_

_“STOP!”_

Larry shoots up, suddenly, taking deep breaths as he presses a hand to his chest, taking in his surroundings. He’s back in his room, unmoved, though it seems someone's put a record on: _Moon River_ , of course.

“Fuck you.” Larry whispers to the empty air.

“Fuck you too, buddy.”

Larry turns in surprise, watching Cliff back towards his doorway.

“Cliff?”

“No, I’m the other brain trapped in a robot body you know.”

Larry rolls his eyes under his goggles.

“What are you… why are you in my room?”

“Your, uh… ghost, soul, guy, lead me here. I thought you might be in trouble, or something.”

There’s a lull in the conversation there, and the typical, awkward silence that falls between the two returns, as they stare quietly at one another. Cliff finally speaks up, tired of these games of social chicken, slowly sneaking out of the room.

“…But clearly you’re not, so I’m just gonna—”

“Wait, Cliff,” Larry stands, holding an arm out to Cliff before he can leave. “I’m… sorry, for uh… saying that stuff to you.”

Cliff hesitantly stops.

“I’m gonna be honest, Cliff,” he continues, a sigh slipping through his words as he sits back down against his bed. Music hums in the background. “… I’m... an asshole. I wasn’t a good person back in the Air Force, and I… I don’t know. I just stagnated. It's like when my body stopped aging so did my head. I’m the same jackass that I was in the sixties.

He takes a step closer to the bed, wordlessly listening as Larry continues.

"Normally I can keep a hold on it, you know? Keep myself together, keep those emotions at bay. But sometimes it's like... I don't know, it's like I'm back in the locker rooms, being rude to keep people from asking too many questions."

For a second, Cliff says nothing, and Larry briefly wonders if he’s going to just turn and leave. Instead, he approaches, sitting on the bed next to Larry, hands awkwardly against his sides as he turns to him.

“Well, that’s bullshit.”

“What?” 

“That’s bullshit!” Cliff says, with a laugh this time. “I know our 'thing' is never moving on from the stupid shit that happened in our lives, but you know what the big secret is? It’s bullshit! I’m a fucking robot. You’re a… ghost, or something.”

“Nice.”

“Whatever. Whenever we go on these stupid ass self-journeys about ‘trying to be new people’ or whatever, it’s not because we’re stuck like that, it’s because we won’t fucking move on!”

Larry’s eyes follow Cliff’s arms as he talks; he overcompensates for his lack of facial expression by animating his words.

“You were a jackass in the sixties, so what? I was a jackass in the nineties! Rita was a jackass in the forties! Vic’s covering the two-thousands, and Jane’s got… who fucking knows about Jane.”

Larry laughs, softly, as Cliff continues.

“We’ve got a house filled with generational jackasses, stuck in their own specific generation of jackassery, complaining that they’re still jackasses.”

“So what’s your solution, then?” Larry asks, resting his hands in his lap as he listens.

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it?”

“Dude, you think _you_ were an asshole. I probably did everything you did, all while being straight and rich.”

“Jesus.” Larry says, ignoring the slight pang in his chest at the casual mention of his sexuality.

“No kidding. And to be honest with you, dude, I still don’t…” Cliff hesitates, turning to Larry before turning back to stare at nothing. “... I don’t completely think they should’ve even bothered with my brain.”

“Cliff—”

“It’s fine, man. I’m not dying to unpack that in your bedroom. The point is, they did. Whether I like it or not, I’m kicking in this stupid tin can of a body. The least I can do is make sure _that_ Cliff Steele gets left behind in the nineties. And we both know I'm still not great at this whole 'being good' thing. But what good does it do me to act like all I'll ever be is the idiot who got his head chopped off by a truck?" 

Larry falls silent, mulling over Cliff’s words in his head. He hated when Cliff went off on tangents like this—mostly because he was usually right. It was infuriating, having the same man who makes frequent jokes about ‘self-pollinating’ spout of existential bullshit at the drop of a hat. He supposes being a brain stuck in a robot body forces you to quickly come to terms with a lot of shit real fast.

“I’m sorry about bursting into your room the other night, man.” Cliff softly breaks the silence.

“Don’t even worry about that. I overreacted. Truth is, I haven’t really, uh… danced, since back then. Being walked in on just kind of... brought up all these old fears of getting caught.”

“I get it, man," Cliff says, pausing after a moment. "... Well, I _don't_ get it. But I also get it. Besides, you could’ve fooled me.”

“Hilarious.”

“Seriously, man. You were pretty good. Probably better than I could do.” Cliff shrugs his shoulders, motioning to his metal legs.

A dangerous idea comes to mind. Energy hums across his chest, and a mixture of dread and excitement mix in the pit of his stomach as he realizes this was the intention.

“You feel like dancing, Cliff?”

“What?”

Larry stands up, ignoring the way his heart suddenly beats harder against his chest.

“Dance with me.”

“Oh, dude, I dunno, I can barely—”

“We’ll go slow. I can show you.”

Cliff’s head tilts—Larry gives a soft, amused sigh at the movement. He's picked up on the quirk, though he often wonders whether or not it's something unique to the Cliff he knows. There’s no response for a while, Cliff just staring at Larry, silently, as the music continues to play.

“Uh, sure. Why not.” Cliff answers, finally, though hesitation creeps into his words.

Larry nods, turning and approaching the record player at the corner of his room, shuffling through his collection, looking for something nice and slow to start them out.

“What’re you doing?” Cliff asks, leaning over his shoulder.

“Moving on, yeah?” Larry says with a sigh, pulling out a Billie Holiday record and carefully setting it in place. “I figure a new song is a good place to start.”

A piano swells to life, trumpets hum as the soft voice of Miss Holiday begin to fill the room.

_I’ll be seeing you…_

Cliff nods, taking a step back when Larry suddenly turns around, standing and staring up into his robotic eyes. He’s not quite sure how Cliff’s eyes work, really; whether or not he’s actually making eye contact. But he supposes they're on even ground, with Larry's goggles still on.

“So, uh,” Cliff is talking quieter now, not as sure of himself as he was a moment ago. “… how does this work?”

“Alright, well…” Larry nods, realizing it’s his turn to instruct. “… you’re, um, a bit taller than me, so I think you’re gonna have to lead.”

“Alright. I have no idea what that means.”

Larry laughs, then gently intertwines his right hand with Cliff’s left. He moves Cliff’s other hand into position, settling his own hand on his shoulder, quietly staring into his eyes once he’s done.

_In all the old, familiar places…_

“Alright, I’m going to start moving now.”

“Dude?!”

“It’s fine,” Larry laughs, again, looking down at their feet. “Just follow my steps.”

Cliff nods, unconvincingly, staring down at his feet as Larry begins to slowly step back, beckoning Cliff’s to follow. He does, so Larry makes another step. Then another. Then another, slowly until he’s settled into a comfortable rhythm, swaying silently in time—or as close to in time as Cliff can manage—with the music.

_That this heart of mine embraces, all day through…_

“Ah…” Cliff grunts occasionally, still unsure of his own feet, sometimes stepping dangerously close to Larry’s.

“Careful, buddy. Your feet are much heavier than mine.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just relax. It’s like the stairs.”

“It isn’t,” Cliff whispers, a bit of pain in his voice. “I can’t feel my legs, Larry. I walk up the stairs because I remember walking up the stairs, I can’t—I don’t have any memories to go back to—”

“Hey, hey, Cliff. Look at me.” Larry slows to a stop, one hand pushing Cliff’s chin up. He stares into his eyes—now sure it’s Cliff’s he’s staring into—and speaks softly. “Let’s make a new memory, then.”

_In that small café, the park across the way…_

Cliff looks at him before nodding, quieting down and looking down at his feet and Larry begins to move again.

After a few minutes, they settle into a comfortable sway, moving in time with each other, Cliff now relatively comfortable following Larry’s movements in time to the music. It’s a calm, peaceful scene, and Larry quietly thinks about how strangely small he feels in front of Cliff’s body. He sighs, taking a chance and leaning his head against Cliff’s shoulder. Cliff does not falter, still swaying to the music.

“You, uh,” Cliff begins, stuttering. “… look nice, without your coat. You’re a lot more, uh, lean, than I thought you’d be.”

“You sure you’re straight?” Larry jokes.

“You think if I stepped on your foot it’d break any bones?”

Larry laughs, low and soft. "Thank you."

"No problem. Also didn't peg you for a suspenders type of guy."

_The children’s carousel, the chestnut trees, the wishing well…_

Another silence settles, this time comfortable, peaceful even, swaying to the voice of Billie Holiday, absorbed in nothing but the movement of each other. Larry slips into his own thoughts in the meantime, silently thinking about the past two weeks. Words to each other, words to Cliff, the conversation that somehow lead to this—the serious conversation he was going to need to have with the spirit when this was over. But for now, he was comfortable in this moment—in this memory, not caring what will happen once the sun rises. 

A thought occurs to him. A dangerous thought. His mind has provided a few tonight.

“Can you feel any of this, Cliff?” Larry whispers, head slipped into the crook of his neck, afraid to look him in the eyes, afraid of the answer he knows he’s about to get.

“I want to,” Cliff answers, in a broken voice.  “I really, really do.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @gloomstalker or on tumblr @arkham for vicarious livetweeting of my dysfunctional writing process
> 
> songs used:  
> "moon river" by andy williams  
> "i'll be seeing you" by billie holiday


End file.
